Fatal Moves
by Black-fire Phoenix Wings
Summary: Sherlock enjoys the game, but Jim Moriarty is a mere trifle in comparison to the true mastermind. Let us not forget that, when she so desires, Fate can play the cruelest 'games' of all...     One-shot. Character death, no pairings


Title: Fatal Moves

Summary: Sherlock enjoys the game, but Jim Moriarty is a mere trifle in comparison to the true mastermind. Let us not forget that, when she so desires, Fate can play the cruelest 'games' of all...

Warnings/Notes: Was trying to recover from a nasty bout of writer's block and this occurred... kinda outta the blue, really, but the mind works in ridiculous ways. There will be some use of language in this fic so if you have particularly sensitive ears- er, eyes, technically, in this case- then... I don't know, do what you will. ANGST AND TRAGIC HAPPENINGS ABOUND, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

(good lord, I accidentally read that as 'tragic happiness,' when I was re-reading and editing XP )

* * *

><p>You can question it, you can deny it, you can even slather it in gobs of eloquent speech to make it sound less, well, agonizingly blunt, or you could even just flat-out ignore it (such a course of action you would not be alone in, no doubt), but the fact remains true and simple- sometimes (as in, quite often) fate was a bitch.<p>

Maybe, if Sherlock hadn't so wittingly rejected the first case in bloody _weeks_ that came up because of his own damnable ego ("gang-related, obviously, what honestly makes you think that is at all worth of my time?") this all might never had happened.

Perhaps, if he had taken the case, he wouldn't have been bored, and might not have set up for an experiment that he never even carried out.

Possibly, if he hadn't been so wrapped up in the apathy that boredom sometimes presented, he might not have been so careless as to leave a glass beaker- filled to the brim with some particularly nasty acid- right on the very edge of the counter.

And not to forget John, no, never to forget poor John. Because John was working his new job as a surgeon at the nearby hospital. Maybe, _just maybe_, if Sherlock had taken the case and had been able to stop that gang- or hell, just even slow them down- John wouldn't have had to deal with so many critically gun-wounded civilians. It made for a crappy, stressful workday, and frankly made him more resentful at Sherlock than the doctor's liking.

But, since fate had apparently been feeling up to her bitchy-self that grave day, Sherlock _had_ rejected the case, the beaker _was _left precariously on the counter, John _was _left in a mixed jumble of stress and resentment by the time he'd returned to the flat later that evening, and once he did- as it was his general way of dealing with such emotions and it gave him an excuse to _not _yell at his sociopath flatmate- he went to work making a cup of tea.

However, his head was clouded with the negative jumble, making him careless and narrow-sighted. Careless and narrow-sighted enough that he didn't take notice of the glass beaker, filled with acid, seated right on the edge of the counter he was working at.

And there it was. The web was woven, the stage set. The pieces were all placed in this cruel game fate had put together. All it took was one move to set everything in motion. One simple action- reaching his hand out for a teabag- that so proved to be the fatal move.

John's hand collided with the beaker he hadn't noticed. The beakers precarious position gave it leverage, John's hand gave it force, and it was knocked over with a crash. The acid was spilled, drenching his hand, and the glass was broken, shards embedding themselves deep into his burning skin.

The sound of the crash was a mere trifle to the explosion of voices that soon ensued- John and Sherlock's voices, cursing and arguing. The argument started out almost petty ("You couldn't have bothered to put the damn thing away? Is that, too, beneath the great Sherlock Holmes?") but it of course escalated, digging and clawing deep into the heart of the matter ("People are getting hurt and suffering and dying! You can't be brought off your ridiculous throne to help them, can you? _'High-functioning sociopath'_- what absolute cock-and-bull! I'm starting to think Anderson and Donovan were completely right about you!"). Sherlock's ego being what is was, was not going to be affronted in such a way, and soon enough he was shouting right back, his words as sharp and hurtful as he could make them.

Back and forth they went on, as they forged weapons out of each of the other's faults- anything about the other that had ever irked them- and battled with them relentlessly. Every single hateful word and every one of their darkest thoughts was used then, with every intent to wound.

And then, silence.

It wasn't a resolved silence, by any means. Instead, it was the tense quietness that occurred when they indeed had much more to say, but were far too flustered in anger to articulate any of it.

So they glared, furious flame in each other's eyes, and though they said not a word, it was very much as if they were still screaming their abuse.

Then, John broke the gaze, dropped his eyes, and slowly moved to wrap his bleeding hand in a cloth and just as slowly walked to the door.

He gave one last look at Sherlock, but it wasn't an angered glare. It was a look of defeat that painted his countenance, and instead of the raging fire that had been in his eyes, there was left only bitterness, and then it was gone. John left.

Sherlock remained frozen in place. He hadn't made any sort of protest against John's departure- not because he condoned it, but because he was right-out shell-shocked. John leaving- it was a thought that had never crossed his mind, one that he had never dared let cross his mind. His anger had abruptly fizzled out the moment John stepped through the doorway, and he might have stopped the man had he been capable of any movement.

His machine-like brain wasn't computing this. Yes, John had left before, many a times, in fact. But this- this was different. This wasn't the 'I'll be gone for a bit to cool down,' this was leaving… not coming back…

.-.-.-.

Ever returning was not his intention, though there was absolutely nothing he could see ahead of him. He walked through the darkened streets of London, clutching his burning and bleeding hand, trying to figure out what to do. Get his hand tended to, that would be the first priority, obviously, and what then… he would think about later. Leaving 221b _entirely _like this had never been a thought that had crossed his mind. He never thought it would ever become anything more serious than 'I'll be gone for a bit to cool down.' He didn't really know what to do now…

He veered down an alley, on the way to Sarah's, because the immediate plan- and the absolute only one he had at the moment- was to stop by her place for a first aid kit and attempt to get his hand to a reasonable state.

Fate did not consent with that plan.

Soon, John wasn't alone in that alley, because around the corner (as it always had to be) came someone. For one fleeting, foolish moment, he thought that it might just be Sherlock.

It wasn't Sherlock.

And it wasn't just one person, either. It was several people in fact, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol and absolute menace. John recognized the gang.

And they were _that _gang.

That one gang that Sherlock had refused to help hunt down. That one gang that had provided John with most of his bullet-wounded patients that day, two of whom that died right before him.

John automatically reached for his gun, finding with dread that it wasn't there- that in leaving so abruptly in that fit of bitterness, he hadn't retrieved it.

The apparent leader of the gang, on the other hand, _did_ have a formidable-looking gun, and upon realizing the presence of John, he curled his lips into the dreadful parody of a smile.

.-.-.-.

Sherlock was darting through streets and alleys, having finally kicked his stupid, miserable self into gear, trying frantically to deduce what path John would have taken.

He had just one objective blaring like neon in his head, find John and convince him to come back, whatever that might entail- apologizing, begging, groveling, _changing_ (heaven forbid)- because, God help him, he _needed _John. His life in pre-John times- alone, friendless, solo- he had never seen anything wrong with it at the time. But now, the prospect of returning to such an isolated existence terrified him. Never having anyone around to show-off to, to bicker with, to be able to run around solving crimes with, or to _just god damn be with! _Someone who genuinely and rightly cared about him, and who _he _(the freak, the heartless… psychopath) might just care about in return! John was the only person Sherlock had ever known to fill all of those places and more- he was _not_ going to lose him!

He was going to find John, and make this right! _That _was his plan!

But you can probably guess who didn't approve of _that_ plan, either.

He ran down street after street, alley after alley, searching for John. He finally reached the right alley, and abruptly skidded to a halt at the sight.

There were four men- two of whom were on the floor, incapacitated- and John, who was putting up one hell of a fight with the two remaining.

It didn't take long- seconds really- for Sherlock to figure out what was going on and who these men were. It was just as long as it took for John to punch one the two men square in the jaw, knocking him onto the ground and good distance away in the general direction of Sherlock.

And that's when John saw him.

John paused suddenly with a look of relief and pleasant surprise that gave Sherlock an odd squeezing sensation in his chest.

It had been the wrong time to pause. The now bloody-nosed leader gathered himself together and retrieved something from his pocket. There was a click of metal. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror.

"JOHN!"

_BANG!_

Sherlock had thrown himself at the gunman, trying to knock the gun out of the leader's hands, but he had only milliseconds. Those milliseconds were not enough.

The gun had been well-aimed at John's heart, and the shot would have been true were it not for Sherlock's stunt, which bought him inches. Inches away from his heart.

But in all honesty, a bullet implanted into the lung was really only marginally better.

John stumbled, still managing (though barely) to stand, and for moments Sherlock thought everything might be okay. Such thoughts were shattered as John's legs gave out under him and his limp body collapsed onto the ground.

Sherlock, his heart racing, wasted no time. He wrenched the gun out of the leader's hands, made sure to embed a bullet between the bastard's eyes, and then darted over to John.

He searched frantically for a pulse and found one, but he knew that such a wound to the lung did not bode well- god, not well at all.

"Shrlk?" John rasped, not able to say Sherlock's properly due to a reddish foam rapidly coming from his mouth as he struggled to take in air.

Hell, so very many things that John could die from like this, blood loss, oxygen that's escaping from his punctured lung not able to get to the brain, suffocating from all the blood and foam he's coughing up…

No! John is not going to die! _John is not going to die!_

He tried to retrieve his phone so he could call an ambulance, finding with horror that it wasn't there- that in leaving so abruptly in that fit of panic, he hadn't retrieved it. No. No no no no…

"Sherlck!" John managed again, louder this time.

Sherlock ripped off his coat and pressed it against the wound in the flickering hope that it might staunch the bleeding. He looked at John's paling face, at how his eyes were falling in and out of focus, and that's when he simply lost it.

He pulled John close to him and curled around him in a desperate embrace. God, he just did not know what to _do_! He always knew what to do. Even when people were strapped to bombs and on a rapid countdown to their oblivion, he knew what to do! And he had been very well able to do something! But now... now he was losing John and he was completely helpless! John buried his face into Sherlock's now thoroughly stained and ruined shirt- Sherlock honestly couldn't imagine giving any serious thought to something to absolutely insignificant as that right now- and gripped his hand onto Sherlock's sleeve.

Sherlock became transfixed onto that hand, the one that was acid-burned and still bleeding. His heart skipped a beat, a horrible feeling amassing in the pit of his stomach.

This was his fault.

He was suddenly enveloped in a new wave of anger, now directed squarely and solely onto himself. He tried to fight it down as he tightened his grip on John, as if he thought that if he held onto him tight enough, he could prevent him from slipping away.

"You are not going to die," Sherlock whispered.

John gave an odd sound that was no doubt intended to be like a bitter laugh.

"You're not," Sherlock insisted, "I _can't_ let you be taken away. This is my fault, I… I…"

"S'alright, Shrlk, s'alright…" he gave a raspy sigh, "M'sorry, Shrlock… everythin'a said… was wrong…"

Sherlock wanted to protest, he really did, but there was something obstructing his throat.

"You're noth... nothing like what they... say- never should've even thought..."

"John, you are _not _having your last words! Stop it!" Sherlock moaned, "Dammit, John you can't leave me, I need you! I'm lost without my blogger John! I need my best friend!" he dropped his voice to a broken whisper, "I care about you, John. I don't want to lose you…" He really wished that it hadn't taken something like this for him to _bloody just realize it!_.

John looked up at him with eyes that were rapidly becoming bloodshot, "You're… cryng…" John whispered, as a few of his own tears broke free.

Only then did he notice a trail of wetness running down his face.

Moments of silence passed as Sherlock cradled John close to him.

"John?"

No answer.

"John?" more forcibly.

No response, verbal or even a squeeze on the arm. Gone.

He was now alone, friendless, solo. Completely without anyone to show-off to, or bicker with, or to just marvel at how they managed to become such a large, irreplaceable part of his existence. Because, no amount of apologizing, begging, blaming, or regretting would ever change this. That this wasn't the "I'll be leaving because I'm upset at you, but at least I'll still be alive and breathing," because this was so very much worse…

Fate was a cruel thing, sometimes. It was her aberrant will that led to this. A darkened alley, and after a terrible day of carefully timed events, there were two men. Only one was shot, but both were indeed dying.

* * *

><p>~END~<p>

You know, I _was_ going to write a... less sad ending, but honestly, the way it fit into the plot- well, it just didn't. I'm also a sucker for sad endings so there, harhar.

Fate, it's a weird cruel thing... kind of like the writer here mwaha-*is abruptly pummelled by everyone*

Shoot, why do I keep killing off John, though? Seriously, in more than half of the Sherlock fictions I've written I've done it. Sherlock would be out for my blood by now...

Anyhow, thank you for taking the time to read this. As a growing author, I do greatly appreciate thoughtful feedback and constructive criticism where necessary. Also the pointing out of blaring typos or really atrocious grammar errors is greatly helpful to me and can save other readers a little mental stumble.

(To anyone to noticed- no that that's terribly relevant any more since I'm telling you anyway- I did sort of reuse that last line from one of my previous stories. I'm sorry D: )


End file.
